


talk like an open book

by taywen



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mid-Canon, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 02:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: Solya is cursed to speak only the truth after they bring Queen Hanna back to Kralia. He turns to Agnieszka for help, much to their mutual distaste.As Agnieszka so candidly puts it, "This wouldn't be such a problem if you weren't a habitual liar, Solya."





	talk like an open book

**Author's Note:**

> written for the "Enchanted" theme of Uprooted Ficathon 2018; title from "Gimme Sympathy" by Metric!
> 
> I think this fits into canon, more or less, but just imagine a few more days between Agnieszka being put on the list and the trial if not, haha

A single brusque knock preceded Marek's entrance to Solya's chambers, and that a mere formality for anyone who might happen to be wandering the halls at this time of the evening. Marek's face was stormy, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he stalked in and immediately began wearing a groove through the plush rug before the hearth.

Solya was rather out of sorts himself. He'd had a meeting with a certain marquess whose loyalties were—flexible—but the encounter had not concluded in any remotely satisfying way for Solya. The words to convince the marquess to back Marek should the question of succession arise—not soon, of course, god willing—would not come; Solya was unaccustomed to such a failure. He was far-seeing, naturally, but he also prided himself on his silver tongue.

Solya watched Marek pace from the corner of his eye, pretending to be engrossed in the tome open in his lap. In truth, he could not say what book he had before him; he'd been staring unseeing at it for the past hour and turning over the earlier meeting in his mind instead.

At length, Solya marked the page and set the book aside. "I take it there was no change in your mother's condition."

Marek halted before the fire, his body taut with tension. He looked as he did before a battle, all barely-contained strength, eyes glinting with the promise of violence and conquest and death and, above all, victory.

One corner of Marek's mouth quirked up, and Solya realized he had been voicing his thoughts aloud. "If only stubborn old men and recalcitrant witches could be subdued by a fight," Marek agreed, torn between amusement and annoyance.

"If they could, you would already sit upon the throne," Solya said honestly. Of course, reality was not so simple, but they both knew that.

The comment earned him a wolfish grin, and Marek stalked closer. Solya stood to meet him; he was a hunter in his own right, not some cornered prey waiting to be devoured.

There were few other words exchanged that night, beyond promises and secrets whispered into gasping mouths and against sweaty skin, but everyone knew those didn't count.

* * *

Marek was gone the next morning, but that was only to be expected. It was more surprising that he had managed to slip out without waking Solya: the second prince of Polnya had all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

Solya stifled his customary disgruntlement. If _—when_ —Marek took the throne, matters would remain unchanged. A king could not afford to carry on publicly with a wizard any more than a prince could; there was talk enough about their relationship as it was.

Agnieszka nearly bowled him over in the corridor, clad in another of her extravagant ballroom dresses. Today's ensemble was an almost impossible shade of red, the colour too deep to have been dyed by human hands. It was gorgeous, but—

"You would look more beautiful if you didn't wear your dresses like a chore," Solya said, uncurling his fingers from around her arm, where he'd reached instinctively to stop her from tripping.

Agnieszka narrowed her eyes at him, ever suspicious. As if he hadn't just saved her from an embarrassing tumble, at _best_. The way she bumbled around, it was frankly shocking she'd made it to seventeen winters.

"I don't see the point of all this lace. Who needs this many layers? What if I had to run somewhere? These skirts are far too heavy," Agnieszka said, an unlooked-for outpouring of frustration.

"I believe the added difficulty of running is considered a virtue by some," Solya said drily.

Agnieszka gaped at him, but the look was swiftly subsumed by outrage: as if Solya meant to include himself in that number. "I'm going to be late," she said, and stalked away before Solya could decide whether he should try to explain himself further or not.

"Late to _what_?" Solya muttered to himself. She'd attended five different events over the past two days, but there was no discernible pattern to them, nothing to explain why she chose to accept any particular invitation over the plethora of others delivered to her every day. He received all the same invitations himself, and there was nothing worth attending happening _now_.

There were, however, several clandestine meetings to be had with influential members of the court, though they were hardly the sort of gatherings to which one issued invitations. Solya shook his head and made for the Charovnikov: he had some time, and that spell Sarkan and Agnieszka had used—Luthe's Summoning—still bothered him. Another look through the collection in the Hall of Wizards would hardly be amiss.

* * *

He'd arranged to take dinner with Marek in the prince's quarters, so he packed up the single useful tome he'd managed to find—it was the only one that even mentioned the Summoning—and headed for the royal wing when the bells tolled the eleventh hour.

Alosha was coming into the Charovnikov; they met in the hall beyond. The area was deserted, aside from the guards posted at the doors, and the witches and wizards within. The non-magical inhabitants of the castle tended to avoid the Charovnikov.

"Alosha." Solya smiled thinly and inclined his head the barest amount.

"Solya." Alosha's tone was brusque, but no more so than usual: the Sword had little patience for court formalities, after all, but it was something Solya appreciated about her and he told her so.

Alosha's eyebrows rose. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said.

"I meant it as such," Solya said.

"And here I thought you enjoyed the court's double-speech."

"I do, but it becomes tiresome at times," Solya admitted.

Alosha tilted her head slightly. Her gaze was uncomfortably sharp; Solya hoped his own silent scrutiny was anywhere near as incisive and knowing. He kept that observation to himself, though. No need to let her know everything he thought; she was his only real rival at court. Ragostok had not the ambition, and the ones who had that drive lacked the power to match Solya.

"I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I hope you realize that this is anything but," Alosha said finally. "You're not an idiot, and you can actually be quite perceptive when you bother to open your eyes and see what's in front of you."

"I do enjoy our back-handed exchanges, Alosha." Solya meant for it to come out ironic, but it sounded uncomfortably close to the truth.

The Sword only exhaled, exasperated; either she hadn't noticed the sincerity, or did not care. She glanced heavenward, as if expecting an explanation from on high for Solya's existence, and continued into the Charovnikov. Solya looked at the guards, who steadfastly avoided his gaze: Solya never forgot a face, and if word of their conversation got around, he would know who was responsible. Alosha wasn't one to talk, after all.

* * *

"You're late," Marek said, but he didn't sound too irritated. He was dressed in blue today, though he tended to favour green.

Solya took the seat opposite Marek. "I missed you this morning," he said, still slightly unnerved from the encounter with Alosha.

The prince paused, his hands poised over the cutlery. "Did you?" His mouth curled into a playful smirk, belied by the hot glint in his eyes. "And what did you do to make up for my absence?"

"I thought about using my hand," Solya said. "But it's not the same, and you'd still have been gone, so I didn't."

Marek's brows drew together; this wasn't the teasing prelude that he'd expected. Solya applied himself to the meal rather than read what Marek thought of that admission in the lines of his expression.

"Have you heard anything from that fence-sitter Aleksander?" Marek asked a few minutes later, apparently deciding to ignore Solya's strange confession.

"I've sent Lord Mazur several overtures. They were flattering enough that he should come around, even without bringing recent events into consideration." Marek's star was ascendant: that much was obvious to any but the most unschooled peasant. Only the most cautious and conservative members of the Magnati could ignore that fact and still cling to Sigmund as a better candidate for the crown. "He finally agreed to meet this afternoon."

Marek smiled. "It's about time."

"Just so, Marechek."

Marek blinked at him, too taken aback to be offended by the pet name.

Solya stared back, equally if not more appalled at himself. He rarely referred to Marek by name unless they were alone—a carefully considered choice, to preserve the image of prince and wizard to everyone else—and he'd never called Marek _Marechek_ outside the privacy of his own mind. He'd have to stop doing even that, if it slipped out at inopportune times like this.

"Is there dessert?" Solya asked quickly.

* * *

They reached the designated meeting room first, several minutes before the appointed hour. Servants had already left some refreshments on the sideboard; Solya cast a cursory glance over them, but the spread was acceptable. He wouldn't have to request anything else before the young lord arrived; he'd ordered the servants to leave them alone once the meeting began.

Lord Mazur was a few minutes late, but Marek hid his annoyance well when he did finally arrive, greeting the other man with a warmth that was only mostly feigned.

"Aleksander. It's been too long."

Mazur bowed shallowly. "I imagine you've been busy since your triumphant return, Prince Marek; Falcon." He inclined his head slightly and Solya returned the gesture, noting but not remarking upon the way Mazur's eyes slid away from him immediately. Most nobles who did not oversee their soldiers personally found Solya unnerving, which he'd always found vaguely ridiculous. Those who took the field with Solya knew what he was capable of, but they did not shy away; perhaps it was some quality that drove them to command that also allowed them to be at ease in Solya's presence?

"There has been plenty to deal with," Marek agreed vaguely. "How fares your father?"

"Still bedridden more often than not," Mazur said, playing rather poorly at regret: he was as good as duke in everything but name with his father too ill to leave their estate. "I will remain his proxy in the Magnati for a while yet, I think."

"How unfortunate," Marek said, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. The two young noblemen exchanged knowing looks.

"May I inquire after the queen's health?" Mazur asked, his veneer of polite concern rather transparent.

"The Willow and my father insist upon keeping the queen confined to that damn tower, but you know it's nothing but politics. There's nothing wrong with her." Marek paused to rein in his ever-present anger before continuing in a more level tone, "I hope I can count on your support if the trial should come to a vote."

Mazur made an agreeable sound; talk of the queen brought a keen curiosity to his eyes. The queen's confinement to the Willow's tower kept her out of sight, but she was on everyone's minds and lips. "I've heard—in passing, you understand, perhaps nothing more than idle gossip among bored servants—but I've heard that the queen has not spoken since her return."

A muscle in Marek's jaw clenched, but he otherwise remained collected. "The Wood is a place of horrors, but she is free of it now. The Falcon is confident she'll recover any day now."

That was Solya's cue, but—was he confident of any such thing? There was something unnerving about the queen. Something—not quite right. She was changed from her time in the Wood, her body hewn from the same sturdy wood as Kasia, but there the similarities ended. Kasia retained that essential spark of animation, a light in her eyes and a purpose to her movement that the queen lacked. Hanna did not move of her own volition; someone else had to manipulate her limbs to put her into motion. She was like a doll.

 _A blank slate_ , Sarkan had called her; a corpse might be more accurate.

Marek's face tightened with anger, and Solya realized once again that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

 _I didn't mean that_ , Solya tried to say. What actually came out of his mouth was, "I didn't intend to say that. But I meant every word."

Marek's face darkened further and he turned away sharply. Solya barely heard what he said to get Lord Mazur out of the room, too focused on keeping his mouth shut on any more damning pronouncements.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Marek demanded, rounding on him when the door closed behind them.

Solya shook his head, as if he could deny that this was happening. "I don't know," he said, too stricken to dress the truth up into something it was not. "I—will go find out. If I can." He hadn't mean to add that last part; he despised showing weakness or uncertainty—but it tumbled out of his mouth anyway.

"Do so, before you ruin everything," Marek snapped.

"It almost hurts to look at you when you're flushed like this," Solya's mouth said without his permission. "It's worse when you wear that shade of blue. It complements your eyes perfectly, and all I can think about is peeling your clothes off of you and checking that your blush still goes as far as I remember."

Half a dozen evasions to that ridiculous proclamation clamoured in his mind, but they caught his throat; Solya was unable to voice any of them. He met Marek's confused—lustful and angry—gaze with wide eyes.

"I—need to leave. And figure out what is happening," Solya said, and fled.

* * *

For all the spells of perception and revelation that Solya had learned and crafted over the years, he had yet to perfect the art of directing them at himself. Mirrors did not accurately reflect what his workings revealed, and he did not trust any other witch or wizard enough to ask them what they saw when he cast the workings on himself. In any case, they would be unable to discern everything that Solya could uncover, their sight being vastly inferior to his own.

This once, Solya half-wished that one of them were (nearly) as skilled as he was with sight magic, but of course there was no one else. He would have to discover what afflicted him through other means.

Alosha and Ragostok's magic was hardly suited to the task of determining what ailed Solya, and he had no wish for Alosha to know in any case; if he went to Ragostok, she _would_ find out eventually.

The Willow was an option, though she was probably still irritated with Solya for foisting Marek on her the day before. But really, Solya had had enough of Marek going on about his mother, locked away in the Grey Tower; her annoyance was a small price to pay for a few moments of peace, even if it meant she was of no use to him now.

Ballo—might have been of some help, but when Solya checked in on the Charovnikov, he was in the middle of some lecture or other to a small group of apprentices, and Solya had no interest in loitering around waiting for him to finish.

Solya found Agnieszka at a tea hosted by Count Zielin of all people, one of the most conservative nobles in all of Polnya and a staunch supporter of the crown prince. Solya would have been convinced that Agnieszka had some agenda from Sarkan that she was following, if not for her attachment to Lady Alicja at all of the events she deigned to attend. Now _there_ was a useless noble. She had no real influence of her own, and precious little of it over her aging husband: Solya would never have spared her a glance.

Naturally, Agnieszka was talking with Alicja near the dining table.

The noblewoman noticed him first—or rather, Solya amended as he found himself on the receiving end of a glare, Agnieszka was ignoring him and so the noblewoman was the first to acknowledge him. Alicja looked like a naughty child caught stealing sweets when he came to a halt beside them, though she managed to hide it behind a strained smile when Solya looked at her.

"Agnieszka," Solya said smoothly, in the correct tone and everything aside from the fact that he'd intended to call her _my dear girl_ ; he certainly hadn't meant to use her name—and it was now her _Name_ , what had possessed her to keep it?—but for whatever reason he was compelled to address her as such. "Might I have a moment of your time?"

"Oh," Alicja said lightly, though her eyes betrayed a certain degree of unease, "if there's some _magic_ business, don't let me keep you, Nieshka."

"It can wait, I'm sure." Agnieszka turned back to—whatever it was she was eating. Was she aware people did not actually attend these events for the food?

"I assure you, it cannot," Solya said evenly.

Agnieszka eyed him warily. "Is this about the trial? Is Kasia all right?"

"No. There's been no word on the trial's date, and Kasia's situation remains unchanged." Solya gritted his teeth to keep from spilling the details of the matter in front of someone he knew would have it spread around all of Zamek Orla within the hour. "But the trouble is magical in nature."

"Perhaps it's a favour for Prince Marek?" Alicja suggested slyly, then obviously came to regret it when she found herself the subject of glares from Solya and Agnieszka.

"There's nothing between Prince Marek and Agnieszka," Solya said coolly, though he had resisted the urge to correct everyone's assumptions on the matter before now, regardless of how it rankled him. The ambiguity had kept Sigmund and Alosha and the rest wary of Agnieszka, which would hopefully have given Solya the time to convince her to support Marek.

"Of course there's nothing between us." Agnieszka was scowling at _him_. "Alicja doesn't think—" but a glance at Alicja proved that she did, in fact, think. With dawning outrage, and a rising volume to match, Agnieszka demanded, "You thought that Prince Marek and I—?"

The thought of Agnieszka making a scene and coming to realize exactly how out of her depth she was at court had amused Solya previously, but now that he found himself a participant in the spectacle, he discovered the reality of it particularly unpleasant.

"Yes, Lady Alicja is merely using you to increase her own social standing, Agnieszka," Solya said impatiently. "There's no further need to waste your time on her."

Agnieszka only fixed him and Alicja both with a mulish glare which didn't bode well for either of them.

* * *

"So, what's the problem?" Agnieszka asked, when they'd finally escaped Count Zielin's tea. Alicja had preceded them, scarlet with humiliation, after Agnieszka had inadvertently revealed that the charming curls framing her pretty face were actually fake.

Solya hoped to obscure the extent of the issue, but when he tried to prevaricate what came out instead was, "I cannot stop speaking the truth." His steps faltered, appalled, as he realized it was _true_. He hadn't noticed as much when he was alone with Marek, or during his brief exchange with Alosha—there was little point in pretending to be other than what he was, with her—but with Lord Mazur and now Agnieszka, it seemed patently obvious.

"I suppose that _would_ be a problem for you," Agnieszka muttered, then stopped in the middle of the road, forcing a rider to swerve sharply to avoid bowling her over. "Are you—you're serious!" She was gaping at him.

"I just told you I cannot lie," Solya snapped, yanking her to the edge of the road, out of the stream of traffic heading to and from the castle. "Why do you insist on walking everywhere?" he added, his own frustration boiling over all at once. "We could be back at Zamek Orla by now. And when I said you should not treat your dresses like a chore, I didn't mean you should treat them like the rags you wore back in the Valley!"

Agnieszka looked down at her mud- and wine-stained skirts in surprise, as if she hadn't even noticed the dreadful state of her own clothes. Sarkan certainly hadn't managed to impart his own sartorial sensibilities on her; Solya wondered how much he had even taught her in the span of a season or two, after that display in the Charovnikov. She hadn't been able to cast the simplest workings during her test, and then had shaken the castle's foundations as if her testers were the ridiculous ones.

"You sound like Sarkan," Agnieszka informed him, which was insulting enough on its own, and more so because Agnieszka did not even mean the comparison to be particularly insulting, as anyone else would have. Solya had wondered how Agnieszka had put up with Sarkan in close quarters for so long, but now he thought he ought to have been marveling at Sarkan's patience with her instead.

And then she simply continued on toward the castle, as if nothing particularly of note had happened or was currently happening. Solya stared after her in disbelief, then hastened to catch up, lest anyone think she was the one leading him anywhere.

* * *

Agnieszka looked around Solya's rooms with a detached curiosity; no outrage over the fact that his quarters were vastly superior to her tiny cell of a room, but she seldom reacted in ways that he could predict. He'd have taken her to a private room in the Charovnikov instead, but he was paranoid of anyone else discovering that he'd been forced to speak only the truth; the very thought of it made him shudder.

"There _is_ something different about you," Agnieszka said thoughtfully, taking Solya's customary seat at the table. Under the circumstances—that she had no way of knowing he considered that _his chair_ , and also that he needed her help—Solya let it pass unremarked upon. "Are there any other unusual occurrences besides the forced honesty?"

"Not that I've noticed." Solya stopped himself from pacing before the hearth, with effort, and sat down opposite Agnieszka instead.

"So it could be a truth spell?"

Solya stared at her, unnerved and a little insulted that the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"Is that so far-fetched?" Agnieszka shrugged, still rather blase in regards to the difficult situation. "The only truth spell that I know of is Luthe's Summoning."

"What," Solya said gracelessly, forgetting his annoyance for a moment.

"The Summoning? The spell Sarkan and I used on Jerzy?"

"I know what Luthe's Summoning is," Solya snapped. "I meant—how can that be the only truth spell you know? It's an extremely advanced working, one that I would not have risked casting with an untried apprentice, and certainly not without ensuring my partner had a thorough grounding in similar spells first."

Agnieszka shrugged—shrugged!—and waved a dismissive hand. "I tried to cast it on my own, first. Before I knew what it was."

"I suppose you simply—took the book off the shelf?" Solya asked, appalled.

"Yes. Sarkan thought you might have sent me to make a fool of him by doing that, actually."

 _I would do no such thing_ , Solya instinctively wanted to deny, but of course that wasn't true. "I would have chosen someone more reliable, although your trusting nature would have been an asset." Solya bit down on his own tongue in order to still it: he could yet feel the urge to continue explaining exactly how useful he found her. It wasn't even something he'd consciously acknowledged in his own mind, and no different than how he viewed most of the people around him, but he had no desire to admit it to Agnieszka's face.

"So I'm coming to understand," Agnieszka said; there was something uncomfortably knowing in her eyes, but she did not press the matter. "You sometimes elaborate far more than you want to, as if you can't stop yourself. But other times you can answer with only a word or two."

The pressure to continue on in the previous vein eased at the change of topic, and Solya unclenched his jaw, swallowing the tang of blood. The situation seemed even more dire now. It was just a small cut, but that he should bleed over a _truth spell_ of all things—

"That is true." Solya glanced at the fire, as if he might be able to divine the answer in the flames. Unfortunately, his vast array of talents did not extend to seeing into the future.

"We could test it?"

Solya looked at her sharply, but Agnieszka only blinked back at him, the very image of guilelessness. That wasn't to say she had no subtlety at all, but she was a fairly expressive person; if she had some ulterior motive, Solya was confident he'd be able to discern its existence, if not its intent.

"Very well," Solya said reluctantly. It was better to uncover the limits of the spell; knowing its framework would aid them in finding out which spell had been cast upon him, or at the very least help Solya avoid spilling the truth to the wrong person.

"What's your favourite colour?"

Solya just looked at her, but the inane question was better than a more personal alternative at least. "Blue," he said at length.

"That's it? You're not compelled to say more?"

"No."

"Did you try to lie when I asked?" When he shook his head, Agnieszka continued, "Then try to lie this time. What's your favourite colour?"

 _Green_ , Solya tried to say. "Blue: that particular shade Marek's eyes get just before a battle."

Agnieszka blinked at him; obviously, it was not the answer she'd expected. Solya hadn't expected it either, but he wasn't about to add that if he wasn't made to.

"I've never before encountered a spell that compels you to wax eloquent on the truth when you try to lie," Solya said instead, frowning.

"This wouldn't be such a problem if you weren't a habitual liar, Solya." Agnieszka sounded faintly exasperated.

Even though they'd just established that lying only made him tell the truth in even more excruciating detail, Solya still tried to deny the charge, with predictable results. "Be that as it may, it is easier to lie or obscure the truth. People do not truly want to know what I think, and it has proven far simpler to tell them what they wish to hear."

Agnieszka gave him a pitying look, which rankled him considerably. He hadn't gotten where he was to be looked down upon by some witch who couldn't even walk two steps without making a mess of herself.

"I don't mean the little lies," she said. "Like when you say your friend looks pretty in that new dress she loves when really it's not quite the right shade for her. There's little enough harm in that. And maybe that's how it started with you, but it's obviously more than that now, or you wouldn't be so upset over it."

Her words cut closer to home than he wanted to admit. "Perhaps we should consider whether _you_ have been afflicted by the same curse," Solya gritted out, although he did not truly believe that was the case: there was just something fundamentally honest about Agnieszka. "Where were you born?"

"Dvernik," Agnieszka said immediately. "Oh. Ask me again, I forgot to try to lie."

Unbelievable. She likely would not even notice if someone cast this spell upon her. Solya shook his head and asked again.

"Kralia," Agnieszka said, in such an unconvincing voice that Solya would have known it for a lie even if he hadn't been aware she'd never left that cursed valley before now.

"You're a terrible liar," Solya said, quite truthfully.

"I'm better at lying than you are at the moment!" Agnieszka informed him tartly, then seemed to realize what she'd said. "Not that being a skilled liar is some kind of accomplishment you should be proud of. Court is terrible; small wonder Sarkan left," she added morosely.

"Actually—" Solya began, because he rather enjoyed the story of Sarkan's disgrace, but of course Agnieszka had to cut him off from one of the rare instances where he would have spoken the truth willingly.

"I already know about Ludmila," she said impatiently. That was—interesting. Why would Sarkan have told her about that whole sordid affair?

Solya tilted his head, studying her with fresh eyes. There was the faint shimmer of her magic, of course, utterly unlike anyone else he'd seen before, and beneath that—just a girl, taller than average but otherwise not particularly remarkable even if one were interested in that sort of thing, which Solya was not. She was thoroughly unassuming, but Solya began to suspect that she might have hidden depths.

"Is there something between you and Sarkan?" Solya asked. He would have liked to blame the tactless question on the truth spell, but it came from his own curiosity. He couldn't imagine Sarkan taking advantage of his position, no matter what the courtiers thought about his practice of taking a village girl every ten years. Which wasn't to say it couldn't happen, but Sarkan had never struck Solya as the type of man to use those in a vulnerable position like that.

"No!" Agnieszka's cheeks reddened. Anger or embarrassment? Something else? Solya could not say. "Why must everything come back to—that! Did people really think I'd just been put on the lists because of—of Sarkan, or Marek—"

"Mostly Marek, but yes," Solya admitted.

"Not because of _you_?" Agnieszka demanded.

"No," Solya said, dragging the syllable out, amused in spite of himself. "No, no one with even half their wits would have suspected me of being behind your success."

"Of course not," Agnieszka muttered. "I can't imagine you with an apprentice."

While that was true, he rather felt that she had missed the point—besides which, Sarkan was hardly what one would consider prime mentor material either—but before he could question her further, the door opened to admit Marek.

His eyes narrowed when he saw Agnieszka. "Have you discovered what's wrong yet?"

"It's a truth spell," Solya said, hiding his frustration at his inability to make the truth any less pathetic.

For a moment, Marek looked—intrigued—but then he visibly set that aside. Solya couldn't decide if he was relieved or not when all Marek said was, "How soon can you lift it?"

"I can't say for certain." They hadn't even gotten around to considering the spell's removal yet.

Marek sighed in obvious annoyance, but Agnieszka spoke up before he could. "Someone cast the spell on Solya. It's like there's another person's magic in him, besides his own," which was news to Solya, but she just blithely continued on, "so we just have to figure out who did it, and get them to lift it."

Marek stared at Agnieszka, and then looked to Solya for confirmation.

"We cannot simply—ask them," Solya spluttered.

"What? Why _not_?" Agnieszka demanded, as if Solya were the one being utterly absurd.

"Because then they will know I couldn't break the spell myself, and they'll tell everyone else that they got the better of me!" Solya retorted.

" _I_ already know about it," Agnieszka pointed out.

"But you won't spread it around," Marek said, when Solya just stared at her speechlessly. He'd skipped pleasantries and moved straight on to threats, his eyes narrowed at Agnieszka once more.

That only served to put Agnieszka's hackles up; she glared right back at Marek. It might have been fascinating to watch, under different circumstances. "I won't, _obviously_ , but not because you growled at me!"

Marek scowled at her, seconds away from growling outright; fortunately, he thought better of arguing and turned back to Solya instead. After a moment, Solya looked away from Agnieszka as well, trying to ignore the unpleasant knowledge that they had both misjudged her. "Lord Czerwen agreed to meet me. I thought you might participate, but I see that's off the table now. Come find me once you've sorted this mess out."

It was a harsh dismissal, something which Solya hadn't been on the receiving end of since they'd taken up together, but Marek only stalked out again.

"Why do you—" Agnieszka began, then stopped, a frown on her face as she stared at the closed door.

In some ways, Solya appreciated that Agnieszka was so uniquely _herself_. Most others would have been probing him for information and secrets by now, but Agnieszka only viewed his distress with his predicament with bafflement, and had no patience for his or Marek's theatrics. And as she'd said only moments earlier, she had no intention of leveraging her damaging knowledge of the situation by telling others about it.

"Why do I," Solya prompted.

"Why do you support Marek?" Agnieszka blurted out. "He acts like a spoiled brat half the time. More than half the time."

Well, he'd walked right into that one. Solya stifled his instinct to dissemble and tried to think of a truthful answer that would not embarrass him or reveal certain truths that would drive Agnieszka away. On that note, he needed to impress upon Marek that he ought to behave a bit better around Agnieszka if he did not want to put her off their cause entirely, assuming she hadn't already decided to move forward separately from them already. Although Solya's own behaviour, especially under the influence of this infernal spell, had probably contributed not insignificantly—

"I suppose he's handsome and charismatic too," Agnieszka said doubtfully, interrupting Solya's spiraling thoughts. "But really—"

"I do find him handsome," Solya agreed, latching onto that seemingly harmless truth gratefully.

Agnieszka's brows drew together, then her eyes widened in realization. "You find him—oh. You and— _oh_ ," she said, her voice rising, and now they were both embarrassed.

Solya tried to backtrack—he hadn't realized she was completely oblivious to his relationship with Marek, but of course, if she hadn't even realized that Solya was disinterested in women—but what came out instead of his instinctive evasion was, "He also has a large—"

"Stop!" Agnieszka slapped her hand over his mouth, her face as red as Solya's felt.

It was truly intolerable, but Solya refrained from telling her as much when she hesitantly drew her hand away a few moments later. He'd made the choice to treat her differently, in the perhaps vain hope that she might still be persuaded to their side of her own volition, rather than for Kasia's sake; he would not break that resolution simply because he was unable to keep from expounding on Marek's physical virtues, of which there were many. There ought to have been, to make up for some of Marek's more unpleasant personality traits.

"You said it felt like there was another wizard's magic mixed with my own, earlier," Solya said, rather than enumerate all the reasons why this situation was untenable.

Agnieszka hummed in agreement, accepting the subject change with palpable relief. "It doesn't feel like the Wood. Or like anyone else I've met so far. Ragostok was making that crown—" it had been a circlet, but Solya let that passed uncontested, "—during my test, and Ballo examined the queen and Kasia when we first came to Kralia. I accidentally found Alosha's forge when I got lost on the way back to my room yesterday too, and she was working on a sword or something. So it must be someone other than them."

"What about the apprentices?" Solya had certainly entertained thoughts of showing up his teachers before he'd earned his Name, and Sarkan had managed it often—not that Solya had any intention of telling Agnieszka about _that_.

"Would they be able to cast a truth spell on you without you noticing?" Agnieszka asked doubtfully. "I felt a few of their workings, but none of them were similar."

There were a few other Named witches and wizards currently in residence at Zamek Orla who could be the culprit. Solya couldn't think of any specific incident that might prompt them to curse him like this, but theirs was a competitive breed. He couldn't eliminate any one of them because of a particularly close acquaintance or uniting cause either.

"Oh, why does it even matter? You said you refuse to ask them to lift the spell, so—" Agnieszka sighed heavily, as if the topic exhausted her. "But how else will you pay them back if you don't find out their identity, of course."

"Precisely," Solya said coolly. "So you can learn."

"Why would I want to learn to—to—scheme and distrust everyone around me?! You're unbelievable, all of you," Agnieszka snapped with sudden pique, and abruptly stood.

"Where are you—" Solya hated the desperate note in his voice, and clenched his teeth around the rest of his plea.

"I need to think," Agnieszka said curtly, and left. She even closed the door quietly as she went, which left Solya even more off-kilter than if she had slammed it behind herself.

* * *

A flattering number of witches and wizards in training turned up when Solya put out the word that he intended to lecture upon perception spells that evening. The small crowd of apprentices in the lecture hall wouldn't normally intimidate him—and he did not truly believe that one of them was responsible for his current predicament—but some part of him could not help wondering if any of them were culpable.

The thought that a mere apprentice could get the better of him was intolerable, but if they _had_ , he could always ensure they never advanced beyond apprenticeship, which was cold as far as comforts went, but comforting all the same.

By the end of the impromptu lecture, it was obvious that few of them would even take the test for admission to the lists, much less have any hope of passing it. Their questions were largely uninspired, though he managed to resist telling them as much, and stuck to answering them as sincerely as he could, lest he slip up and reveal too much. None of them tried to inquire about inappropriate topics, which left him a combination of relieved and disappointed: his methods of retaliation would be more limited if the culprit was a peer, though it was heartening to know that a mere apprentice had not managed to pull one over him.

Ballo was his next target. He was the least likely suspect, lacking both political affiliations and ambition, but that didn't rule him out entirely, no matter what Agnieszka had said about feeling an unknown witch or wizard's magic on Solya. And even if he wasn't, whoever had cursed Solya might have asked Ballo about truth spells; the man knew every book upon the shelves of the Charovnikov.

"Truth spells?" Ballo tilted his head, eerily reminiscent of his namesake, when Solya found him in his office after the lecture. "They're on the fourteenth bookcase, shelves two and three."

"No one else has been asking after them?"

"No." Ballo blinked at him. "Why?"

Solya deliberately did not answer. "You've been very helpful, Ballo, thank you." He hid a grimace as he ducked out of Ballo's office: a bit more effusive than he preferred, but not an outpouring of truth that would make Ballo suspect anything was amiss. If nothing else, Solya would learn the limits of this spell and work around them until he could remove it completely.

* * *

Ragostok was working on some kind of jewelry when Solya invited himself into his workshop.

"Please, make yourself at home," the Splendid drawled irritably, his eyes flickering briefly from the delicate silver chain in his hands to glare at Solya.

"Thank you," Solya said silkily. That was good, actually: he could still feign emotion, thereby distorting otherwise truthful utterances. But he still had to be careful not to accidentally overshare if he went too far. He conjured a chair before Ragostok's worktable and made himself comfortable.

No one else could see magic the way Solya did. Certain workings made the caster's magic visible to all, but Solya could see it even in the more delicate spells that did not require such power. If a witch or wizard was gifted enough, Solya could even see it in them when it lay quiescent, and if he exerted himself to cast a spell of perception, he could spot even the weakest magical gift that might otherwise pass unnoticed.

Ragostok's magic was undeniably beautiful, and he only ever used it for workings that were equally breathtaking. Alosha valued function over appearance—though her creations had a perfection of form and purpose that was beautiful in its own way—but her great-grandson's chief concern was beauty.

The piece he was moulding today was a necklace strung with glittering blue sapphires. Ragostok's magic flared brighter as he manipulated the metal, each flash of power translating into another delicate loop of silver that hung of the main chain. Every one bore a smaller gem that glittered in the light.

"Well?" Ragostok hung the completed necklace on a convenient rack already strung with other pieces. "What do you think?"

"It would look better in gold," Solya was compelled to say when he went to tell Ragostok it was perfect.

Ragostok's eyebrows rose. "Silver is a better complement for blue." Thankfully, he did not sound offended. "But Marek's colouring is better suited to gold," he added slyly.

Was this taunting better than offense? Solya couldn't say. "Marek would never wear such a delicate piece." Though now Solya was picturing it, gold and sapphire against Marek's bare chest—

"But you're imagining it now," Ragostok said knowingly.

Definitely worse than Ragostok taking offense. Solya narrowed his eyes at the other wizard, wondering if Ragostok _was_ the culprit.

"Is there something the matter?" Ragostok did not sound truly concerned, but had their positions been reversed, Solya would have sounded similarly sincere. He pointedly did not try to answer that question. "I know what it is: you're here to ask me a favour, but you find whatever it is too embarrassing to say straight out. God, you don't intend to ask me to make you and the prince a bed toy, do you?"

"What," Solya said, strangled. "Of course not!" But then he had to go and try to deny that such a thing would be of interest, and was forced instead to ask, "But can you?"

"Why, are things getting a bit stale?" Ragostok was enjoying this far too much. "I suppose the prince has his eye on the new witch."

"Not like that," Solya gritted out. "And things are not 'getting a bit stale'!"

Ragostok made a non-committal noise that nevertheless managed to convey his lack of belief. Solya ought to try communicating without actually using words himself: surely it couldn't go any worse than this conversation already had.

"It's no concern of mine either way," Ragostok said. "It was tiresome to hear all the gossip about Marek's bed partners before he took up with you. And I could fashion something for you," he added, "but it'll cost you dearly and you'd have to swear no word of it would ever reach Alosha."

Solya shuddered at the very thought. Any of his peers finding out about it was disturbing on its own, but somehow the idea of Alosha knowing was worse. Some part of him still thought of her as the teacher to his apprentice, an authority figure that he definitively did not want to know the sordid details of his private life.

"That won't be necessary," Solya said, though he did commit the information to memory—it could be useful in future.

"Then why are you here?"

"I only wanted to know if you were behind a recent annoyance currently plaguing me," Solya said, though he was reasonably certain that Ragostok was no more responsible than Ballo had been. Ragostok had pressed him for information, but it was no more than he would have done under normal circumstances, and while the topic was an uncomfortable one, it was nothing truly suspicious.

"An annoyance?" Ragostok looked intrigued. "What sort of annoyance?"

Solya only smiled thinly—he could just feel the truth waiting to come bursting off his tongue—and made his escape.

* * *

Alosha was behind closed doors with the king or Sigmund or both—the servants wouldn't give him a straight answer—so Solya couldn't try to subtly interrogate her.

Just as well. Were she behind the truth spell, she likely would have tried to extract more information from him when they met that morning. And she was a good deal sharper than Ragostok and Ballo, always quick to suspect Solya of ulterior motives or shady dealings; she might even figure out what was going on despite Solya's efforts to conceal it, given half the chance.

Not that Alosha was the type to cast a truth spell on someone like this; whether she would stoop to taking advantage of it (Solya knew he would not hesitate if someone else were the victim) was another question entirely.

Disgruntled, Solya sent Lizbeta for a tray from the kitchen—there was no point in attending a party, and Marek had made it clear Solya was not to show his face until his inconveniently truthful problem had been resolved—and ate alone in his rooms, leafing through one of the tomes he'd found on the shelves Ballo had directed him to.

It mentioned spells that could compel the victim to answer truthfully, but they all required sustained effort. No other wizard or witch had been around him for such a prolonged period of time. The volume also warned that the one forced to speak the truth could answer briefly and that further persuasion might be required if the caster wanted more detail.

That didn't sound anything like the spell currently plaguing Solya.

He paced the room restlessly; for the first time since he'd been assigned larger quarters, the walls felt small. He'd had a room like Agnieszka's garret once, but that was decades ago now. He'd hated it. His family had owned land even before the king had elevated them to a barony, and Solya had always had a room of his own.

Solya stalked the confines of his home, his mind gnawing restlessly at the question of who was to blame and how he would lift the spell before the trial. If the king got wind of it, he might push it forward; Alosha had likely convinced him and Sigmund that the queen could not be spared, and Solya had his own doubts on that subject as well.

Doubts he'd never have voiced—or even acknowledged within the privacy of his own mind, before this spell—but which he'd be forced to admit to if the trial came to pass.

With that encouraging thought on his mind, it was almost impossible to sleep, so Solya drank a glass of wine to settle his nerves, and from there it only seemed natural to finish the bottle—no point in wasting it, after all.

* * *

Knocking woke him at an indeterminate hour of the morning. The sun shone merrily through the window he'd forgotten to cover the night before, stabbing at his eyes in an exceedingly offensive way. Solya turned over and pressed his face into the pillow, as if that could soothe the headache pounding behind his eyes. The infernal knocking at his door obliterated what little help it was.

"Come inside already, for God's sake," Solya finally snarled when it became too much for him to take. He flicked his fingers to unlock the door and slitted his eyes open to glare at whoever had the gall to disturb him.

"You're still in bed?" Agnieszka stopped at the threshold between the front room and his bedchamber, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. She was wearing a subtle shade of violet today, though the obvious irritation in her own posture was such a change from her usual discomfort that it actually looked quite well on her. He also appreciated the lighter tone: her other dresses were attractive enough on their own, but the bright colours would have hurt his eyes this morning.

"Don't say a word about my dress," she added, eyes narrowing further.

"You are not behind this spell, are you?" Solya asked warily. He'd dismissed her entirely due to her lack of guile—and she hardly seemed capable of maintaining a charade of innocence for as long as she'd spent with Solya the day before—but he was becoming rather (more) desperate. The ease with which she had just anticipated his thoughts unnerved him.

"Of course not. Now, get dressed."

"Why?" Solya demanded with a rather unbecoming edge of petulance.

"I think you were more put together when we stumbled out of the Wood," Agnieszka said thoughtfully, which was enough to urge Solya into motion, even if he did shoot her a hateful look before she closed the door between the rooms with a pointed snap.

"Someone doesn't know the meaning of moderation," came Agnieszka's voice through the door, followed by the clink of the empty wine bottle and the two others that had succeeded it from the night before.

Solya quickened his pace, dressing with swift, jerky motions: the thought of her snooping around his room was even better motivation than her maligning of his appearance.

She'd conjured some food—or Lizbeta had somehow sensed his need and brought up a tray—by the time he emerged into the sitting area, and Solya ate it with ill grace as Agnieszka stared rudely at him from the other side of the table.

"Let's go, then," Agnieszka said when he'd cleaned the plate and was starting to feel less like he needed to set something on fire to make himself feel better.

"Go—where?" Solya stood up instinctively, for Agnieszka was already making her way to the door, but the non-sequitur had him at a loss.

"To the Grey Tower." As if it should have been the obvious destination.

"I already told you I refuse to ask anyone else for help," Solya hissed. Particularly not the Willow. They maintained a cool civility at the best of times, but Marek had yelled at her at least thrice over the past week and Solya was directly responsible for bringing him to her on the most recent occasion. Solya had seen enough battles to know that sometimes a strategic retreat was the best course; better to avoid the Willow until he had no other option, and hope that her annoyance with him had cooled by then.

"Well, maybe I want to see Kasia," Agnieszka said impatiently, then rolled her eyes at him when he began to protest. "As soon as you enter the grey room, the spell should end."

Solya stared at her.

"I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier, but I was just thinking about how I wanted to tell Kasia about everything that's happened—she wouldn't tell anyone about the truth spell either, so don't start—and then I remembered about that iron doorknocker..." She continued to prattle on, but Solya wasn't listening any longer: he'd heard enough.

"You're brilliant, Agnieszka," Solya said candidly, disregarding the startled look she gave him, and proceeded past her into the hall with as much dignity as he could muster, which was not very much at the moment: he was really quite desperate to be rid of this damn truth spell.

* * *

"You have no idea how to get in either?" Agnieszka said, when she caught up with him at the door to the grey room.

"No." Solya glared at the offending doorknocker. He could feel the enchantment worked into the iron tugging at his own magic, eager to consume all the casual, everyday charms that Solya cast each morning for a start, and then onto the rest if he would only let it. "Is this enough to end the spell?"

"I can't feel your magic right now," Agnieszka said. "How old are you?"

 _Seventeen and a fool_ , Solya tried to say. It was probably just as well that he was instead forced to say, "I'll be one hundred and thirty-two this August." He glared when Agnieszka just squinted at him.

"Maybe that wasn't the best question to ask," Agnieszka muttered. "Are you really over a century—?"

"Yes," Solya said shortly.

"We could knock?" Agnieszka did so before Solya could answer, somehow managing to knock in a decidedly more polite manner than she had earlier that morning, when she'd nearly broken down Solya's door.

"The door can only be opened by magic from the inside," Solya said.

Agnieszka looked crestfallen.

"We'll have to ask the Willow," Solya said slowly. Much as the idea pained him, it was the lesser evil.

Agnieszka's dubious expression was uncomfortably close to the apprehension Solya felt about the endeavour. "I don't think she likes me very much."

"You're in good company then," Solya said grimly.

But the Willow came to them instead, followed by Marquess Karyn, one of the principle lords who owed Queen Hanna allegiance; they met each other on the landing below.

"What do you want?" the Willow asked him coolly, ignoring Agnieszka entirely.

Solya set his teeth and was saved from having to answer by Agnieszka. "I asked Solya to examine Kasia again," she blurted out. "I found a working that I thought might help."

She hadn't magically become even an indifferent liar overnight, much less a proficient one, but the Willow simply pursed her lips and let them in alongside the marquess.

Agnieszka went to Kasia's side immediately; the other girl was sitting at the window, staring out at the courtyard below with a distant look on her face, but she broke into a smile when she saw her friend.

Someone had sat the queen in a chair. Karyn knelt before his liege, but she did not so much as blink. The contrast between Kasia and the queen was painfully obvious.

Solya remained near the doorway, thinking to afford the girls some privacy and avoid the queen's eerie stillness. This had the unfortunate side effect of placing him near the Willow.

"I haven't got all day," she said. "Cast this working on the girl already."

Solya turned away from where the marquess was talking at the queen's unmoving form. "It will take some time. You needn't linger." He barely stifled the urge to make an unseemly display of triumph at the successful lie.

The Willow's eyes narrowed marginally. "Surely you've already cast every working imaginable to determine the extent to which she is corrupted."

"Kasia is not corrupted," Solya said coolly: of that much, he was certain. Whether the same could be said of the queen, well, Solya would say it regardless now that he could. "Any more than Queen Hanna herself is."

"Count yourself fortunate that I did not ask you as much before you entered this room."

Solya paused, his eyes darting from the queen's unnaturally still face to the Willow. "Excuse me?"

"Lady Willow," Karyn said. He looked pale and uneasy. Solya would have to arrange for himself and Marek to speak with the marquess. Hanna's vassal lords would surely side with Marek, but it wouldn't do to take their allegiance for granted. "I thank you for your time. There is nothing more for me to say to the queen."

The Willow smiled faintly and let him out of the room; she smirked outright at Solya when the door had closed once more.

"You," Solya said, when he found himself capable of speech again.

"Is there something amiss?" the Willow murmured, her eyes downcast—only to hide the obvious mirth in them. She had never been demure a day in her life.

"You cast the truth spell on me?" Solya demanded.

Distantly, he heard Kasia ask Agnieszka what spell he was talking about, though Agnieszka's muttered reply was too soft for him to make out.

"It would be more accurate to call it a curse," the Willow said dismissively. "The working only triggers if you attempt to lie. Did you not even figure that much out?" she added contemptuously.

"So you admit to the deed," Solya hissed, taking a step forward. "You'll regret—"

The Willow stood her ground, unfazed. "Will I? You're not the only wizard who can lie. Retaliate against me as you like, but remember that my testimony will be held just as highly as yours whenever the king deigns to hold a trial."

"You can't lie at the trial!" Agnieszka burst out, appalled; he'd almost forgotten they had an audience.

"Can I not? I doubt this peacock intends to tell the full truth before the court," the Willow said coolly; she did not even bother to turn her head to address the other witch.

Agnieszka scowled, but she didn't try to deny it. "Why would you curse him in the first place?"

The Willow leveled a disbelieving look at her then. " _You_ may enjoy the prince's attentions, but I assure you that I do not. Yet Solya insisted upon inflicting that brat's tantrums on me."

That had been on one occasion only, and— "You cursed me two days ago?" Solya was too off-balance to conceal his incredulity. He had left her and Marek rather swiftly, but he should have noticed her _cursing him_. In hindsight, it made sense—he'd certainly provoked her enough—but he hadn't truly considered the Willow a suspect—

"Why the surprise, Falcon? I suppose you really must be blind to the offense you so casually inflict on those around you."

"Hardly," Solya said mildly; his insults, especially to his peers, were always calculated. "I simply thought you incapable of workings other than healing." He smiled pleasantly, pausing to allow that to sink in, then when she looked on the verge of responding added, "And I assure you, my dear, that is the truth. No curses required."

* * *

"Well, if she didn't hate you before, she certainly does now," Agnieszka muttered, looking rather appalled as they descended from the tower.

It was far from the tamest disagreement he'd had with another Named witch (or wizard) but the only wounds were to their pride, so it was hardly the worst he'd endured either. Solya even felt that he'd insulted the Willow to an equal, if not greater, degree than she had him, so in that regard it had turned out quite well.

"Why do you look so smug?" Agnieszka said despairingly, but she did not seem to really want an answer, and Solya was no longer compelled to give her one. He only smiled at her.

"You were most helpful to me," he said mildly. "I will not forget it."

Agnieszka sighed, an exhausted sound incongruous with her youth and the early hour: it was not even noon yet. "I just wish I could guarantee that Kasia will survive this. Is that still possible? Will the Willow lie to the king and say the queen is corrupted now?"

The thought had occurred to him, though his own outrage had mostly drowned it out earlier. "The workings I intend to cast upon the queen during the trial will show that there is no trace of corruption within her." _Or anything els_ _e_ , but that wasn't Solya's concern and he refused to dwell on it. "I shall do everything in my power to ensure the queen and Kasia are acquitted."

She still looked insultingly doubtful, but Solya refrained from trying to convince her further. He had a feeling his prevarications would not fool her any longer, if they ever had, and it would have been a poor repayment for her help in any case. He could, on occasion, recognize the debts he owed.

He halted when they reached the next intersection of corridors. His destination was Marek's room; he had no idea where she meant to go. The next party scheduled to begin soon, perhaps. "Agnieszka—thank you."

Agnieszka blinked at him, speechless, for several moments. He braced himself for the recompense she would demand in exchange for her aid and her silence, but all she with dawning suspicion said was, "The Willow didn't curse you again, did she?"

Solya stifled his annoyance and disbelief and allowed only his reluctant amusement to show. "No. But I meant what I said, all the same."

* * *

Solya did not speak to Agnieszka again until a few days later, just before the trial. He saw her in passing at one of Countess Boguslava's soirees, and exchanged nods with her in the corridors of the castle, but otherwise he left her to her own devices.

When he found her in the Charovnikov with Ballo and Alosha, he wondered if that hadn't been a mistake, but he only smiled and invited them to join him for the trial that Marek had forced at the ball in the Mondrian ambassador's honour.

"Do you think Kasia and the queen will be acquitted?" Agnieszka asked quietly as they made their way through the halls.

Solya could not bring himself to lie to her, even with Alosha and Ballo no doubt listening closely. "We will endeavour with everything in our power to that end."

"Yes." Agnieszka worried at her lower lip and they said nothing more before they reached the ballroom.

Marek commanded the court's attention, armed for war and determined to win the day. The royal secretary had no hope of opposing him, his wavering voice nothing compared to Marek's self-righteous conviction—but Solya did not have the time to admire the figure Marek made.

The stage had been set, just as they'd agreed upon after Marek had come back wild-eyed from the Grey Tower, going on about how they could not dance to the king's tune. Something Agnieszka had said to him: she possessed a unique perspective, and Solya was suddenly reminded of what she'd told him just a few days before.

 _This wouldn't be such a problem if you weren't a habitual liar, Solya_. The curse—and Agnieszka—had opened Solya's eyes to how often he twisted the truth, if not lied outright. It had become—and remained—a habit for him to do so; he seldom made the conscious choice to lie, it was simply second nature.

"—you there, Falcon," Marek called; he no longer had to shout, for the court now hung on breathlessly to his every word, "lay a spell upon her now! Let all the court look and see if there is any spot upon her—"

What good would come of telling the truth in this situation?

Solya looked from the queen's blank ( _corpse-like_ , rose unbidden in his mind, and since he'd admitted it a few days earlier, he could no longer turn a blind eye to how apt the description was) face to Kasia's pale one beside her. If he voiced his own doubts about the queen, there was little Agnieszka could say or do that would mitigate that. She had been Named, that much was true, but Solya's word carried far more weight than a young witch newly-arrived to Kralia.

The king would seize the slightest weakness as an excuse to be rid of Queen Hanna, and the recantation of the wizard who had so staunchly championed her would be a gaping hole in their defense. He'd have her beheaded, or on the pyre, within the hour, and Kasia with her, never mind the consequences for Marek, Solya and Agnieszka.

Not that Solya thought Agnieszka would concern herself with the latter. All she had asked—and she had not even asked, truly, though she would have been well within her rights to do so—was that Kasia survive.

Solya turned back to Marek, and the king sitting on his throne behind him, and stepped forward to take up his part in the play.


End file.
